


Quicksilver Baby

by DarcyFarrow



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 06:01:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20943494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarcyFarrow/pseuds/DarcyFarrow
Summary: It's time for seven-year-old Vince to start school, but his guardian Bryan Ferry is worried about how the unusual child will adjust after growing up alone in the forest (actually, an estate in South Africa). Vince needs a friend, Bryan thinks, and maybe a bodyguard.





	Quicksilver Baby

Hopelessly Grounded

Big, unblinking blue eyes stared at him as if he were some kind of rare find, like a T-Rex or a pirate chest full of diamonds and bottles of rum. Howard shivered a little; that stare made him feel creeped out and dangerous at the same time. Behind him, his father prodded him in the back, and so begrudgingly, Howard took a step forward, his new Hush Puppies thudding against the rug. “Say hello, Howard,” Mum urged him. “We don’t want the Ferrys to think you’re uncivilized.” 

The little girl continued to stare at him in silence, but there was a shift of emotions in her eyes: the lids lowered slightly and a spark—of amusement, maybe, or intentions of mischief—danced in them. Still, from her size, Howard guessed she was four or five, way too young for his attention, and frail. If he tapped her shoulder with his pinkie finger she’d fall over. His spine stiffened under the implied parental insult: they expected him to play with a little girl? Babysit, more like. Still, with her shoulder-sweeping, sleek blonde hair and those sparkly blue eyes, she was kind of pretty. (At eight, Howard was beginning to notice prettiness.) She was dressed in brand-new blue jeans (if she turned around, Howard suspected he’d spot the price tags on her back pockets) and a spotless white t-shirt emblazoned with a Rolling Stones Tongue logo. Her little feet were shod in silver leather trainers. Howard relaxed: at least they wouldn’t expect him to take her outside to play and ruin those new clothes.

“Hello,” Howard muttered, stuffing his hands into the little front pockets of his corduroys. He wasn’t going to shake hands with an inferior unless Dad made him. 

“This is Howard,” Mum supplied. 

In a flash of abrupt assessment, the girl relaxed, stepped forward and grabbed Howard for a hug. “Hi, I’m Vince Ferry Noir.” When she stepped back she was grinning. It was a pretty grin. Weird name she had, though.

“Okay, then,” Dad sort of sighed, as if he’d just finished a strenuous and distasteful workout, like mowing the lawn or unclogging the kitchen sink. “Off with you two. Mr. Ferry and Mum and I have things to discuss.” His voice brightened on the latter sentence. Discussing things put Mr. Moon in his element. “Tea, Mr. Ferry?”

“Thank you, tea would be most welcome,” the girl’s father said. He was tall and his longish black hair touched his broad shoulders and he was dressed up in a suit with a tie and shiny leather shoes, like Dad always did when he had a meeting to attend, except Mr. Ferry’s jacket was white and wasn't tweed. Howard had only seen a white suit jacket once before, on a doctor; that assessment fit with the way Mum and Dad were treating Mr. Ferry, like he could do something to or for them. Howard could tell his father wanted this discussion to be over quickly, but Mum didn’t. She had on her giggle smile. “Take Vince to your room. Show him your pencil collection.” Then she turned her smile on Mr. Ferry. “I baked a Cherry Bakewell this morning,” she announced as the adults moved toward the kitchen. 

“My favorite,” Mr. Ferry said politely. “And so hard to find in South Africa.”

“Well, come on, then,” Howard grunted. His guest was still grinning. With the adults gone, he was free to size her up. Yup, he could knock her down with a pinkie finger if he wanted to. He’d reserved judgment on that for now. She followed him to his bedroom. She smelled rosey. He bet she’d washed behind her ears this morning. At least he didn’t have to worry that she’d mess up his room. A place for everything and everything in its place, Mum liked to say, and Howard thought that way too. 

He halted abruptly on the threshold to his room. “Listen, don’t touch anything unless I say you can.” Maybe he shouldn’t be so bossy with a rich guest, but she was a baby; her frailty and innocence begged for bossing. “I mean, if you want to play with something, ask me first. My stuff is. . .” he shrugged. “The way I like it.”

“All right, Howard.” Vince didn’t seem put out at all by the command. Locking her arms behind her back, she walked into the middle of the room and swept her big blue eyes across his room: the Blue Peter bed cover, stretched tight across the twin bed; the matching curtains, pushed back to allow the sunlight in through freshly washed windows; the navy blue carpet, hoovered just this morning; the book shelf, with books arranged by reader level first, then subject; the toy chest, stuffed to the brim with a lifetime of stuffed animals, plastic dinosaurs, Army men, and metal trucks. “All the dolls are in my sisters’ room, but I can go get some for you.”

“Do you want to play dolls?” Vince cocked her head as if he’d said something curious. 

“No, but I thought you might. My sisters have a toy beauty kit. Hair rollers and lipstick and stuff. It’s all pretend but they’ll let you use it, if you want.” Auntie Vi had taken the girls out shopping for school clothes, but really, Mum had said to Dad over breakfast this morning, that was so Howard “could focus on his guest.” The twins, two years older, tended to ride roughshod over their introverted brother. Now, _that_ was bossy. Had they been left home to meet the guest, they would’ve ridden roughshod over her too. Probably stuck bristle rollers in her shiny hair and smeared bubblegum lip gloss over her mouth and cold cream over her cheeks. That would be a shame, Howard thought; Vince looked fine just the way she was. 

He cleared his throat. He needed to assert his authority, act like a host (“master of the castle,” Dad liked to say). “You want me to go get the dolls?”

“Not unless you want to play with them. I’ll play whatever you want to.”

Howard opened and closed his mouth. He didn’t have a ready answer for that: frankly, he wasn't used to house guests. Or play companions either. “Nah,” he finally decided, although, sometimes, when the twins were gone, he’d sneak into their room and dress their Barbies in little tweed business skirts that he’d made himself. 

“Your mum said you have a pencil collection?” Vince prompted. “Could we see that?”

And in that instant everything between the children changed. “I have fifty-three pencils from all over the world!” Bragging wasn’t polite, Howard knew, but he couldn’t help it when it came to his pencils. He knelt at the foot of his dresser and pulled the drawer open. “I keep them in cases that I decorated myself. They’re arranged according to the country of origin.” He tugged at Vince’s jeans, urging her to kneel too so she could peer into the drawer and appreciate his treasures in their proper environment. 

If she was faking it, she was doing a good job of it. Her eyes widened again and she leaned in, just enough for a close look at the drawer’s contents but not so close as to moisten the cases with her breath. “Wow.” Like she’d just been shown the Crown Jewels. “You made these yourself?” she pointed at a pencil case but didn’t let her fingertip make contact. “They’re beauteous, Howard. I like your covers.”

Howard reviewed them one by one. “That’s Howlin’ Jimmy Jefferson, that’s Delta Donny Davis, that’s Louie Armstrong, Duke Ellington, Thelonious Monk--”

She pointed to a face. “I know him.”

Howard raised a skeptical eyebrow. In his experience, girls knew nothing about jazz. In fact, nobody under the age of fifty knew anything about jazz.

“Miles Davis. Trumpet. He looks mean but he’s not.” She leaned toward Howard to confide, “It’s ‘cause he’s supposed to wear glasses but he says they get in the way of his blowin’.” She pointed to another case. “That’s Wynton Marsalis, isn’t it? Bryan took me to hear him play last month. We didn’t stay for the whole show, though, ‘cause I broke out in hives.”

Howard’s hand lifted from his prized collection to rest, just for a second, on Vince’s shoulder. He was touching a girl who’d met Miles Davis. Now it was his turn: “Wow.” He collected his wits. Carrying Miles’ case from its nest, he offered it to Vince. “Here, you can look inside if you want.”

“I won’t touch the pencils,” Vince promised. She pushed the lid up and peered inside, but true to her word, touched nothing else. “Where did these come from?”

“Shanghai and Hong Kong. That’s in China.” 

Vince set the case back into its nest. “And the ones in Wynton’s case?”

“Mumbai, New Delhi, and Jaipur. In India.”

“And the ones in Duke Ellington’s case?”

“Paris, Lyon, and Nice.”

“France,” Vince supplied. “I went there once. Bryan was on tour.” She looked down. “I don’t remember much about it. I was a little kid. Did you go there?”

“No, we’ve never been anyplace but Butlins. I get these from Rymen Stationery. I buy a new one every week. Mr. Rymen special-orders them for me.”

Howard swept his hand magnanimously over his collections. “You can look at any of them you want. Take them out of the cases. That way, you can see them in the sunlight.” 

“Really?” she squealed. She leaned into the drawer closer now to make her selection. “Which ones come from England?”

Howard made a sound of disgust. “Oh, England. I collected those when I was six. In the Sinatra case.” 

“We live here now,” Vince said thoughtfully, reaching for Sinatra. “Are any of these from Washington?”

“No.” Washington wasn’t much of a town but Howard knew where it was, his father being a geography teacher. “But that one’s from Sunderland. That’s close to Washington.”

“Bryan’s mum and dad live in Washington. We went to see them last week. They’re real nice.”

Vince quieted, so Howard scrambled to lift the mood. “We came from Leeds. Do you know where that is?” He pointed to a pencil. “That one’s from Leeds. We moved here last year so my mum could work for your dad's record company. She’s an Assistant Executive Secretary.” Howard had no clue as to what an Assistant Executive Secretary did, but it must be a big deal, because now the Moons had a pretty big house to live in.

“Bryan,” Vince corrected.

“Huh?”

“Bryan. He’s not my dad.”

“Where’s your dad and mum, then?”

“They crashed in the forest.” Strangely, Vince didn’t look sad, just puzzled. “Maisie—she’s my friend and a gorilla— carried me out of the plane before it caught fire. She took me to Bryan.”

Howard figured he should say something polite, but he didn’t know what to say so he presented Vince with his Dinah Washington case. “Here, you can have this. It’s Dinah Washington. That’s kinda close. You know, Washington. I guess.”

“To keep?” She gasped.

“Yeah.”

She clutched the case to her chest. “Cheers, Howard! Nobody ever gave me a Dinah Washington before.”

“’S all right.” He closed the drawer and stood up. He'd decided: for her sake he'd make the sacrifice and play outside. “We can go outside, if you want. We got a swing set in the backyard.”

Vince rose too and carefully set the pencil case on the bed. “Do you maybe have a tree I could climb on? I like climbin’.”

“I guess so.” He wasn’t really sure; he didn’t spend much time in the backyard. He set his arm on her shoulder to lead her through the house. “Hey, is your name really Vince?”

“Yeah.” 

“Well, isn’t that a boy’s name?” Not that Howard Moon was judgmental. 

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I mean, why didn’t they call you Mary or Arlene or somethin’, you know, girlish?”

Vince stopped and stared at him. “Howard, I am a boy.”

Howard blinked and studied Vince from silver shoe to shiny blonde hair. Finally he said, “Huh.” 

“There’s the tree!” Vince shouted, breaking into a run. “It’s a good tall one!”

Howard shrugged and ran after him.

The boys sprinted out to the backyard, Vince in the lead, Howard, as the polite host (and less athletic) trailing. Confronting the playground, Vince gushed, “Wow.” He didn’t seem bothered that the swing set had been painted pink (the twins being its primary owners). He ran his hand over the strap seat of one of the swings. “Bryan bought one of these for our house, but I ain’t used it yet.” He trotted over to the sand-pit, where a rusted pail and plastic shovel waited a child’s return. “This is well cool.” He picked up the shovel, but before he could thrust it into the damp sand, the miles-high ash tree consumed his attention, and in two leaps he was up it, scrambling without hesitation to the bottom branch.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Howard began, but he realized his warning was too late. A hand dangled from above his head and a lithe little body swung to and fro, upside down. 

“Come up, Howard! It’s great up here!” With one arm Vince hauled himself upright. He shielded his eyes like a sailor in a crows nest scanning the horizon. “You can see for years!”

Howard dug his fingernails into the bark, then just as quickly, withdrew. “I don’t think so.”

“Come on, you got to!” Vince swung himself up to the next higher branch. “You’ll love it.”

“No, Vince, tree climbin’s not for me. I’m more of a man of action.”

“But you got to see what I see. It’s so beauteous, Howard.” He was standing on the branch now and Howard’s heart stopped. If Howard let Vince fall, Dad would murderize him, assuming Mum didn’t get to him first. But despite a wind kicking up from the west, Vince’s feet remained firmly planted on the branch. Frowning, he squinted down at Howard a moment, then his face cleared. “You never climbed a tree before, did you?”

Howard couldn’t admit this gap in his manly education, so he simply looked away. “Come down and let’s play in the sand.” That sound babyish, so he cast around for something more appealing and took notice of a football in the sand-pit. “Hey, you play football? I can teach you.” He scooped the ball up and tossed it enticingly. 

“Wow, yeah! I seen it on telly. It’s way fast.” Vince hooked a leg around the branch, preparing to lower himself, but then his eyes narrowed as he realized he’d been detoured. “Not yet. You come up here first.” He swung backwards, his body dangling by the knees and his arms outreached, a few feet from the ground. “You come up this one branch and then we’ll play football. Deal?”

“Just one branch, right?” Pressing his lips together, Howard dug his fingers into the bark again. He didn’t think Vince would nark on him, but neither did he want his new, younger friend to outdo him. 

“No, grab the lowest branch, that one there. Pull yourself up.”

Howard screwed his eyes shut and jumped into the air, arms flailing. He failed. He fell back to the grass. Brushing off his corduroys, he couldn’t look Vince in the face.

“You closed your eyes, that’s all. Keep your eyes open so you can see where you’re grabbin’.” 

“I don’t—” But Vince’s wagging fingers urged him on. Howard positioned himself once again, bent his knees, bounced a little to test his balance, then pounced. His legs scrabbling in the air, his arms burning from the stretch, and his palms burning from wood scratches, he gasped, “I did it!”

“Almost. Now pull, Howard, pull! And push your toes against the trunk.” 

Howard tried to push his toes, but his Hush Puppies offered no traction against the bark and his foot slid uselessly down the tree trunk. His body jerked under the pull of gravity. “I’m gonna fall, Vince! I got to let go!” 

“No you don’t.” A small but surprisingly strong hand clamped around his wrist. “Try again. I got you, Howard.”

“Don’t let go,” Howard gasped, thrusting his leg toward the trunk again. He pressed his shoe into the bark to stop the uncontrolled motion of his body. 

“I won’t. I got you, Howard, I’ll always got you. Get you.” Vince’s hand offered little physical support, but the emotional support sent a jolt of power through Howard’s entire body. A memory shot through his mind, lending him enough anger to fuel his strength: in his mind’s eye he saw his father, hands on hips, standing by to rescue him should he fall as he rode his bicycle without the training wheels for the first time. Certain of his father’s dependability, Little Howard set off, the bike wobbling beneath his clenched hands and unbalanced body. He was a big boy now, a brave boy, he assured himself, he could do this, and Dad would be so proud he’d hug him. Daring to straighten his back, Little Howard fixed his eyes determinedly on the sidewalk, on the lookout for potholes, as Dad had instructed. He rode to the end of the block, his body molding into the machine. He wasn’t allowed to cross the street yet, so he planted a foot when the sidewalk ran out and brought the bike to a halt. Awkwardly, because the bike was heavy and a little rusty, he stuttered it around, his feet providing the thrust. Now he faced his father. He lifted himself onto the seat again, his feet pumping the pedals, his face beaming. “Look, Dad, look!”

But Dad wasn’t looking. Hadn’t been all along. He was engaged in a deep conversation with a neighbor. 

Howard understood then a fact of his life that would never change. 

The hand on his wrist squeezed. “Come on, Howard. You’re almost here. Use your arms to pull up.”

“You got me, Vince?” He began to pull, seldom-used muscles straining.

“I got you.”

“Don’t let me go.”

“I won’t let you go. I’m your mate, Howard.”

Howard puffed, drawing his chest up to the branch. He swung a leg over and paused to catch his breath. A second hand yanked at his trousers leg, urging him to scoot forward. He scooted. He didn’t know how he managed it, but in another minute he was sitting upright on the branch, a leg dangling on either side. Holding onto the branch with both hands, he lifted his head. “Look, Vince, I did it.”

“’Course you did.” Vince took his hands away and returned Howard’s grin. “I knew you would.” 

Howard dared to glance down at the ground. “I did it.”

“We’ll do it again tomorrow, after school.” 

“’Course we will. After homework.” Howard drew in a cleansing breath. He let go with one hand. He glanced down again. This time he wasn’t shaking. “It’s not too far down, is it?”

“If you fall, you won’t even bruise.” As Howard’s eyes widened, Vince hastened to add, “But you won’t fall.” 

Howard scanned the horizon, as much as he could see of it from three feet up. “You’re right. I can see for miles.”

“Howard?”

“Yeah, Vince?”

“I want to learn football now. Let’s get down.”

“You first.”

Time Conquers Innocence

By unnecessary order of Mum, Howard appeared at Vince’s back door at precisely 8:45 a.m. the next morning. His hair was slicked back, his Hush Puppies were freshly brushed, his plaid shirt was freshly ironed. In his briefcase, a hand-me-down from Dad, he carried a legal pad, his Duke Ellington case, a pencil sharpener (because he didn’t trust the lead-snappers at school) and his lunch. 

Vince answered the doorbell. Mr. Ferry stood behind him, greeting Howard with a relieved smile. Howard wondered what he’d been worried about: from what he could see of the house, Mr. Ferry must have plenty of everything. Around a mouthful of Chocolate Shreddies, he invited Howard in, but the invitation was politely refused; they had a bit of a walk ahead of them and they had to arrive no later than 8:55. Nodding, Vince stuffed his mouth with a bite of banana, accepted his bookbag from the housekeeper and a forehead kiss from Mr. Ferry, and trotted out the door behind his new friend. “Remember, I’ll be gone when you get home, Vince. But Bernice will be here. I’ll call you from Berlin, all right?”

“Okay, Bryan. Have a good show tonight.” 

“Howard, if you want to, you can come over after school and play. I understand you’re thinking of pursuing a career in music, yeah?”

Howard nodded. He was still a little intimidated by Mr. Ferry and hadn’t found his voice around him yet.

“You’re welcome to use my stereo, any time. Vince knows how to operate it. I have an extensive jazz collection.” Mr. Ferry lowered his voice into a mischievous stage whisper. “Don’t tell anyone, but trad jazz is my weakness.”

“Yeah?” Howard beamed. 

“Yeah. When I come back, we could noodle around a bit on the keyboards.” 

“Yeah!” Howard chirped. “Thanks, Mr. Ferry!”

“Have a good day, fellas.”

The boys set out towards the school, Vince chattering happily about what he hoped to find there, but Howard forcing his feet to march like a proper soldier in Her Majesty’s Armed Forces. He had a job to do, by agreement between his mum and her employer’s star recording artist. She’d explained it to him last night after his bath. Vince had never attended school before, so he was a little behind other seven-year-olds. He could read, he knew his numbers up to twenty, and he could tell you all about all kinds of animals, from aardvarks to zebras, thanks to the years in the African wilds (actually, a small but tasteful estate outside Johannesburg), but he’d never spent time with other children. Howard was his first friend. He was an over-talkative, too-trusting little guy, Mr. Ferry worried, small and slight, a. . .unique dresser. He needed more than Howard’s friendship, the adults feared; he needed a protector. 

Mr. Ferry knew all too well how judgmental and unforgiving kids could be. He’d been on the receiving end of bullying himself, as the artistic son of a farm worker. Vince, who’d taught himself at age three how to make paints from berries and bongos from coconuts, seemed destined to follow in his footsteps. Mum shared all this last night in a private conversation, and Howard had promised to keep the information secret. “You’re a full head taller than him, Howie,” Mum said, a hint of pride in her voice, as if his height was her doing. “Than most of the kids in your class. If any of them rough him up. . . well, he’s so fragile. . . .”

“Don’t worry, Mum. I’ve got him.” He would have done, even without her asking. 

“Help him make some friends if you can. He’s a strange little thing.” Mum’s thoughts drifted off. 

Howard had no idea how to do that, but Mum had no idea he had no idea. She worked long hours and wasn’t around to observe her children’s social activities. Howard also had no idea how to protect Vince, let alone himself, from bullies. Last year, he’d spent most of his playground hours in the school library, assisting Mrs. Crane in shelving books. Bullies didn’t know the school had a library. 

As they walked, Howard scrutinized his charge from the corner of his eye. This morning Vince was wearing the mandatory gray polyester school uniform but his long hair was held in place by a sparkly headband. Howard wondered why either Mr. Ferry or the housekeeper hadn’t stopped him from going out like that. Bernice spoke with a Cockney accent; surely she’d seen what chavs could do to a strange kid. “What’s in your bookbag?” 

“My lunch, my paintbox, and a sketch pad.”

“Don’t let them see that,” Howard said quickly. “Kids at school, they don’t like artists. Not boy artists, anyway. What’ve you got for lunch?”

“Sushi and kelp salad and a package of strawberry bootlaces.”

Howard brought his march to an abrupt halt. He grabbed the bookbag off Vince’s shoulder, rifled through it and tossed the sushi and kelp into the nearest trash bin. From his briefcase he took his bag of Wotsits and thrust it into the bookbag. “Here. Don’t ever bring sushi again.”

“Yes, Howard,” Vince said meekly. His face scrunched up in embarrassment and bewilderment.

“Vince, look, I think you’re cool, but you got one shot with these kids, right? If just one of them decides you’re weird, you’re done for. Let me fix you, yeah?” He removed Vince’s headband, shoving it into the bookbag. “Don’t let anyone see that.” There was nothing he could do to de-pretty Vince’s hair. He feared there was a swirly in their future. 

“Is that better, Howard?” Vince asked hopefully.

“Tonight, I’ll ask my dad to take you for a haircut.”

Vince fell silent, staring at his feet as they walked on. Howard worried for him, just as the adults had; what happened in the next six hours would determine his social life for the next nine years, and with him, Howard’s. But his sympathy for Vince’s newly experienced shame outweighed his fear of their future, so he sighed. “Maybe not. Maybe you can be cool with that hair.”

Vince brightened. “Cheers, Howard.”

“Hey Vince,” Howard ventured after a moment. “Yesterday when you told me about visiting Washington, you looked kind of down.”

“Oh. Yeah.” There was a long pause. “Well, Bryan’s parents, they were nice, weren’t they? They said, ‘Call us Nana and Papa.’ But they’re not. Not really. ‘Cause Bryan’s not my dad.”

“Do you have a real Nana and Papa? Or uncles and aunties?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know my real name. When the plane burned, everything went up in flames. All Bryan could find in the rubble was the label from a bottle of Pinot Noir.” Vince forced his mood to lift. “But the blanket I was wrapped in had ‘Vince’ stitched into it.”

“So he named you Vince Noir.” 

“Bryan tried to find my family; he put out adverts in the newspapers, but nobody answered.”

Howard thought about the situation. “Vince, when we grow up we can be detectives like Colombo and then we’ll find ‘em. I promise.”

“You’d do that for me, Howard?” 

“Sure I would. You’re my best mate.” He didn’t add: my only mate.

Their conversation took them the rest of the way to the school grounds, where kids shouted and shoved each other and ran about, except for a small group that stood off to the side. Despite their uniforms, these kids managed to look cooler than everyone else; maybe it was their bored expressions or the disdainful way they leaned against the building or their slow, emotionless voices as they passed critique on everyone else, even the teachers. As Howard and Vince entered the yard, Vince remarked, “I don’t like them.” 

“Yeah, good. Stay away from them.” 

“Football! Genius!” Before Howard could stop him, Vince was off, racing across the yard towards a circle of kids kicking a football back and forth. “Can I play?” he shouted. 

“Vince!” Howard tried to warn him, but he didn’t hear. He shook his head and muttered to himself, “So uncool.” From the corner of his eye he watched the cool kids, fearful of what they’d do if they took notice of Vince. 

When he looked back at the kickers’ circle, he found that Vince had already blended in and was bouncing on the balls of his feet, waiting his turn to kick. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. He didn’t stand out as badly, now that he was in a group. He could kick well enough to fit in. But if he said the wrong thing, like “What’s Arsenal?” or “Who’s Vieira?” the kickers would drop him like a rotten egg and that would draw the cool kids’ attention. 

Focused on the athletes, Howard didn’t hear three older boys approach him until they’d encircled him. Taller and heavier, they were, spoiling for trouble, and worse, they spoke with chav accents. “Whassis then?” one of them asked the others and all three laughed derisively. “Give us ya money.” Another added, “Or not. Dinnit proper care. As soon knack ya as nit.” He flexed his fingers. All three wore wisps of whiskers on their chins and cobra smiles. 

Howard scanned about for the nearest teacher, or at least another nerd he could hide behind. Finding no help anywhere, he stepped back, one slow step at a time in hope that they wouldn’t notice until he’d already escaped.

The lead chav held out his palm and reminded him, “Your money, ‘allbag?” 

“I don’t have any.” It was true. Howard wasn’t sure what he’d have done if it wasn’t.

He didn’t see it coming. From the side, a hand flew out and slapped him, forcing his head to roll back on his shoulders. From the other side, a foot hooked around his ankle and yanked him to the ground. Howard’s head struck pea gravel and he saw stars. He squeezed his eyes shut, raising his fists to shield his face. At least it would all be over soon.

“Get off, you berks!” 

Howard’s eyes flew open. A flying flash from the front: Vince had thrown his frail little body into the fray. His little feet and fists were windmills drawing blood from chav noses. Now they were in real trouble. “No, Vince, stay away. They’ll rip your head off. Get a teacher.”

The bewildered chavs stared at the miniature cyclone taking bits and pieces of skin and pride from one of them, then another. Distracted, they stepped back, unwittingly giving Howard room to clamber to his feet. He could’ve run, he could’ve escaped, but no, not really. He wiped his dripping nose with the back of his hand, then with a “what the hell” threw himself full-bodied onto the nearest chav, bowling him over. Flat on his belly, the bully gasped for air but Howard bounced up and down on his back like a birthday boy in a bounce house and the chav couldn’t catch his breath. Howard grabbed a handful of chav hair and yanked. 

He giggled maniacally and heard a giggle from his friend too. “All right, Vince?” he shouted over chav curses and grunts. 

“All right, Howard!” the lad crowed. He was busy delivering a Glasgow kiss. 

“What’s going on here? Break it up, break it up!” Multiple pairs of huge adult hands reached into the melee. “You’ll have detention for this, the lot of you!” 

Howard couldn’t stop giggling, not even as he was lifted, shaken, set onto his feet and dragged into the Head’s office. As Vince was hauled along too, Howard reached out a hand to slap his in a high five. “Told you I got you, Howard!” 

“You’re my main man, Little Man.”

**Author's Note:**

> Titles from Roxy Music's "Just Like You," written by Bryan Ferry


End file.
